


Serva Me, Servabo Te

by prozacplease



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Disfigurement, Domestic, Eye Trauma, Fluff and Angst, HYDRA Husbands, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military Backstory, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Physical Abuse, Rehabilitation, Self-Esteem Issues, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4853312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prozacplease/pseuds/prozacplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly ten years before Project Insight and the fall of the helicarriers, Jack is seriously injured during the Iraq War. Brock is determined to help him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Serva Me, Servabo Te](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089420) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> The actor who plays Jack Rollins, Callan Mulvey, was in a major car accident some years ago. I've always been interested in incorporating some of his injuries into a story about Jack. So here it is. 
> 
> I want to thank my dear [GlitterCrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterCrow) for putting up with me as I slog through this. Thank you so much for your help and patience with all my writing endeavors. And a big thank you to [wintercyan](http://wintercyan.tumblr.com) for answering some questions I had about facial sutures. You're the best! 
> 
> Some of the above tags pertain to later chapters. The views expressed in this story are not my own.

Brock promised himself that he’d never come back to the Middle East. After having his snot turned black from the burning oil wells in Kuwait and shooting little kids in Mogadishu, he’s made a point to avoid this part of the world. Hell, he’d rather go back to Panama than endure this sandy purgatory for one more tour. But this time, the money is better and he’s not doing the work that he’s used to.

It’s 2005 and the Iraq War is at a fever pitch. Brock and Jack are working for Blackwater, a private military contractor that is merely a front for HYDRA. Their organization’s serpentine infiltration seems too easy sometimes. The tentacles and tendrils slip into the existing cracks and just push them wider.

* * *

Jack doesn't have the same feelings about the Middle East that Brock does. He doesn't mind the heat or the sand or even having to kill people. But he misses beer. He misses pizza, long showers, women with bad highlights and fake tits. Just dumb shit like that.

Jack has been serving here since the beginning of the invasion, in one capacity or another. First it was with the Marines, now it's with HYDRA and his lunatic partner, Brock.

Jack isn’t quite sure what he sees in Brock. The older man is his superior, but he’s so insufferable at times that Jack doesn’t know how he manages to not kill him. Loud and mouthy, Brock has an opinion about everything. He’s such a good liar that even Jack doesn’t know if he’s hearing the truth half the time. He lives and breathes whatever cover he’s been given, even gets outsiders attached to the person he’s pretending to be. Brock could be described as a chameleon in this respect, but he has none of the animal’s charm. He’s certainly reptilian, but more cold and calculating. A pit viper, coiled tightly and full of venom. Jack’s gotten tastes of it in the year they’ve been working together.

The fact that Brock is handsome—all dark skin and black hair and honey-hazel eyes—is just a further complication. He’s quick to smile and he laughs like a goddamn hyena. And not to mention that he’s one of the best lays Jack has ever had in his life. But all those positive qualities don’t outweigh his negative ones. There’s more to it. A devotion.

He’s the perfect antithesis to Jack’s quiet, saturnine demeanor. Jack himself has been highly trained in deception and has no problem with the lies that come with keeping a sleeper agent cover. But he doesn’t quite slide into it as easily as Brock does. It’s just downright scary at times.

They are riding along in a Humvee the color of the surrounding landscape, on a highway that is bordered by rocky terrain. Jack is riding shotgun and Brock is sitting behind him. It could just be the shitty road, but Jack is fairly certain that Brock is kicking the back of his seat. He is silent and only half listening to the current conversation as he scans the highway for IEDs. Brock is telling the other soldiers—two Marines that aren’t even half Brock’s age—about the time he was mistaken for a member of the Iraqi Armed Forces. It’s one of the few stories that Jack can confirm is true. He was there and it was hilarious.

“I shit you not. I had to prove I was legit,” Brock says.

The two men are cackling and the corner of Jack’s mouth curls up into a smile. It was pretty funny, but only because Brock was so offended. It was an honest mistake, in Jack’s mind. Brock has a swarthy complexion to begin with and being out in the desert sun has only made him darker. Wrap a shemagh around his neck and you’ve got yourself someone who looks like a native. The fact that Brock can speak Arabic well enough to give orders and converse with locals just makes it even better.

This final sentiment always reminds Jack that his friend is definitely not stupid. Brock understands the culture of the Iraqi people better than he lets on.

Jack never sees the IED that detonates beneath the Humvee. The destroyed vehicle veers off the road and hits an embankment, which causes it to flip onto its roof. They were traveling alone and there is no hope for immediate backup or assistance.  

* * *

Brock loses consciousness briefly during the blast, but he’s the first one out of the vehicle. One of the thick, deep-tread tires is still spinning uselessly when he cuts himself out of his seatbelt and drops gracelessly out of his seat. Brock is dazed, but he can hear automatic gunfire and excited yelling in the distance. AK47s. Insurgents.

He scrambles out of the vehicle, body thrumming with so much adrenaline that he is oblivious to his injuries. He can walk and that’s all that matters. Brock moves quickly, controlling the urge to call out to whoever is alive.

The Humvee isn’t on fire, but it’s smoldering from the explosion. The entire left side of the vehicle is mangled, and so is the driver and the guy that was sitting next to Brock just a few moments ago. It’s very obvious that they’re both dead, what with most of their bodies gone and all. The smell of blood and burnt flesh mixes with the black smoke on the dry desert air.

He finds Jack hanging half out of his seatbelt, unconscious. Brock thinks he’s dead—or at least very near death—when he pulls him out by the shoulder straps of his flak vest. Jack’s face is covered in so much blood that it’s hard to tell where it’s coming from.

“Hey, are you with me?” Brock asks.

He pulls off a glove to check the pulse in Jack’s neck and is relieved to find it leaping beneath his fingertips. Jack makes a noise in his throat, moves his mouth. Through the gore, Brock can see how badly his lip and chin are lacerated. Jack’s teeth are pink with blood and it takes Brock a few moments to realize that he’s choking on it.

“Oh, shit. Okay, you’re all right,” Brock finds himself babbling. He hauls Jack onto his side and stands, preparing to pick him up.

Jack spits a mouthful of blood onto the sand. “—mffface—” he says.

There’s another burst of gunfire from across the road, louder this time. Brock is on the verge of a controlled panic, unable to decide if he should prepare to fight or gather up Jack and make a run for it.

“Is anything broken? Do you think you can stand up for me?” he asks.

Jack makes noises in response, but Brock can’t understand him. There’s no time to ask more questions or assess for injuries himself. Brock grabs Jack by the arms and pulls him to his feet. Even slumped over and half-conscious, Jack towers over his smaller counterpart. Brock’s knees protest when he heaves Jack across his shoulders, pulling him into a fireman’s carry. It’s not ideal, but at least Jack won’t choke on more blood in this position.

He locates their rifles and hikes up the embankment, still unsure if they will be able to escape the insurgents. Brock practically gives a sob of relief when he sees there’s a small village about a quarter mile to the north. It’s the same distance as one lap around a track. The length of a drag racing strip. Less than half a klick. But it seems like an incredible distance with Jack across his shoulders.

The landscape shimmers in the mid-afternoon heat and there’s not a single cloud in the wide, blue sky. Brock’s tongue is sticking to his lips and the roof of his mouth by the time he reaches the edge of the village. The place is probably infiltrated by Al-Qaida, but maybe the locals will help.

He approaches the nearest dwelling and inadvertently alerts the family to their presence by startling a group of goats outside. Their alarmed bleating causes a small child to poke his head out the door and his deep brown eyes go wide in fear. He zips back inside before Brock can say anything.

Brock hesitates until the sound of more gunfire urges him along. He draws his sidearm before storming into the one-room house. A woman veiled in a black hijab shrieks and her three small children rush to her, terrified. It’s hard for Brock to not feel like a monster as he points a gun at these people.

Through broken Arabic, he tells them that he’s an American soldier. Surely they heard the explosion and can put together that they’re being pursued. Brock sets Jack down on the dirt floor and sits next to him, facing the door. He needs to get in contact with his superiors and tell them that the op has been compromised, but Jack is still bleeding heavily.

Brock pulls Jack into his lap, cradling him a bit. Jack is pale and his eyes are half-lidded, but he’s very much alive. Brock takes off Jack’s helmet and sets it aside before pulling out his small first aid kit.

“My eye is fucked—” Jack says through a mouthful of blood.

“Just relax, buddy,” Brock says, not even sure what Jack said.

Jack grimaces and makes a pained noise when Brock presses a few squares of gauze to his face.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Brock says. He keeps talking to Jack, trying to keep him conscious.

Brock can see that Jack’s face is cut down to the bone; his jaw is laid open and the gash is welled with blood. Brock is not squeamish by any means, but this wound makes his stomach turn. The bleeding is out of control and Brock wonders if it's possible to exsanguinate from the face. He’s been trained in basic field medicine, but he’s not a doctor.

He is still sitting with Jack when one of the children runs out of the house in a dead sprint. Brock is too preoccupied to stop the kid or threaten him into sticking around. He worries about where the kid is going, who he’s going to talk to.

It feels like an hour has passed when the child returns hand-in-hand with his father. The man ushers his wife and children out of the house. He gives water to his unexpected guests and keeps pressure on Jack's face with clean pieces of cloth while Brock calls for help. Brock loses track of how many times he says _shukran, shukran jazilan_ while they wait for extraction.

A black helicopter lands under the cover of darkness, rotors hitting grains of sand in the air and creating sparks. After hours of being held in Brock's arms, Jack is taken away by HYDRA's medical team. Brock has his own injuries and a nasty case of dehydration that need to be tended to.

By the time they are rescued, the U.S. military has announced that two unidentified Blackwater operatives are missing after an IED explosion in Iraq. The story runs on cable news tickers and the media speculates, but no one listens too closely for answers. The perfect cover. 

* * *

Jack wakes up in Germany with no idea how he got there or how long it's been since his last cohesive memory. Everything comes back slowly, swimming up through a haze of pain medication as he becomes aware of his body once again.

When his consciousness extends beyond himself, he sees Brock sleeping. He's sitting in a chair, but has slumped over to rest his head on the edge of Jack's hospital bed. Jack shifts his stiff legs and Brock stirs, sitting up like he didn't realize he fell asleep. Bullshit.

"Hey," Brock says awkwardly, rubbing at his tired face.

Jack wants to make a comment about how creepy it is to watch someone sleep, but the thought is lost as soon as he thinks it. "Hey," he squeaks out.

“You feelin’ all right?” Brock asks.

“Not really feelin’ anything right now,” Jack says.

Brock nods like that’s a satisfactory answer. But something’s wrong. His normally piercing gaze is fractured, shifting around like he can’t decide where he’s supposed to look.

“It’s my face, isn’t it?” Jack blurts out.

He doesn’t need a mirror to know that his face is fucked up. He can feel it. His left eye is rendered sightless by heavy bandaging and the right side of his face is stiff with sutures. He can feel stitches on the inside of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.

Brock looks pained. “Do you wanna hear it from me or the doctor?”

The huge amount of narcotics in Jack’s system blunts his emotions. He sees that Brock is freaked out and he can feel that his heart has started racing, but nothing seems like a problem right now.

“You tell me,” he says. “Straight. No bullshit.”

“Your retina was torn in your left eye.” Brock hesitates. “They did surgery, but they couldn’t save your vision.”

Jack is expressionless. He hears the words but he can’t comprehend them. It feels like he’s receiving bad news about someone else. He’s not devastated, just confused and upset.

“I wanna go home,” he says after a considerable pause.

His voice is soft and pleading, but he’s too doped up to care about how pitiful he sounds.

“We’re gonna go home,” Brock says. “They cancelled the op and we’re both getting sent stateside.”

“You’re going too?”

Brock holds up his left arm, which is wrapped in a hand and wrist splint. “Yep.” 

* * *

Jack spends the next few days in the hospital. The doctors and nurses come and go, blurs of white and green and blue. They are almost mocking in their cheerfulness. Brock comes and goes too, but he’s a welcome visitor. He sits with Jack even when he’s fucked out of his mind on pain medication and suffering from sleep deprivation.

It’s the combination of morphine and fatigue that leads to Jack getting agitated. The day before they’re sent back to the United States, he decides that he is ready to leave of his own volition. Jack has been in a daze for the most part, but he gets riled up every time he’s given another dose of pain medication.

Brock is snoozing in his chair when the nurse comes in and pushes morphine into Jack’s IV line. Jack is awake, unbandaged eye half-lidded as he watches the pleasant brunette leave the room. The drugs are good, so good. He’s warm and relaxed and feels _fucking great_. He could get up and walk right out the front doors of this place if he wanted to. _Bye_.

Jack peels away the medical tape and wrappings that secure the IV port to the top of his left hand. The large bore needle slides out of his vein easily and there’s only a small dribble of blood. Then he unclips the pulse oximeter from his fingertip. At least that one doesn’t hurt. Everything is going smoothly until he begins to pull leads off his body. One of the machines starts making an alarmed noise. Jack has his hospital gown hiked up and is going for his urinary catheter when there are hands on him.

“Woah, buddy. Let’s not mess with that,” Brock says, batting Jack’s hands away from his dick. He covers Jack’s lower half and then leans over him to press the call button. “You’re ready to go home, huh?”

“Yes,” Jack says miserably. He’s frustrated that Brock seems to be preventing him from leaving. But the morphine has taken a lot of the fight out of him and he allows Brock to ease him back down.

The nurse returns with some of her pretty friends and they give him _even more_ drugs this time. It’s not as good as getting to leave this godforsaken place, but it’s a close second.


	2. Chapter 2

The roads are snow-packed and Brock curses every time he hits an icy patch. He has a death grip on the steering wheel and his jaw is tight. Jack is sitting in the passenger seat of Brock’s car, convinced he cheated death in Iraq just to die on a poorly plowed street in Washington, D.C.

He doesn’t know why he agreed to this. Recuperating with Brock seemed like a better option than being cooped up alone in the Triskelion. Brock insisted, and the idea of shacking up for a while makes some sense. All flights leaving D.C. are grounded, and it’s not like either of them have any close family to fly home to. But it’s a little awkward. They know each other in the Biblical sense but not much beyond that.

“Are you sure this is gonna be okay?” Jack asks, lolling his head over to look at Brock.

They gave him a big dose of pain medication before they discharged him and it’s really hitting him hard. He’s found that he gets chatty when he’s high.

Brock keeps his eyes on the shitty road. “Yeah, it’ll be fine,” he says, trying to sound cheerful.

He leaves Jack in the car while he runs into a large supermarket. Jack passes the time by watching the fat, fluffy snowflakes hit the windshield and melt. The car is warm and it makes him tired, but he’s awake when Brock returns.

“That’s for you,” he says, tossing a white paper bag onto Jack’s lap. It’s stapled shut and rattles with pills.

Jack somehow remembers his manners. “Thanks.”

Brock places a few other bags in the backseat and starts cursing as soon as they’re on the road again. Jack suddenly finds it funny.

“Didn’t know you could drive, being from New York and all,” he says.

“Oh, fuck off,” Brock says. There is no bite to his words, but Jack can hear Queens in his voice.

The streets in the residential areas are even worse. Brock’s sedan slides through several intersections, despite him slamming the gearshift into neutral each time. But they make it to his place unscathed and he gets the car into the driveway without any spinning tires.

The idea of Brock having a permanent residence is weird to Jack. It’s a small white house with green shutters and a garage in the back. The shrubs and the little fir tree in the front yard are flocked with snow.

“Stay put and I’ll help you out,” Brock says. “It’s icy.”

Jack ignores him and opens the passenger door, but he doesn’t get very far because he forgets to unfasten his seatbelt.

“You’re a danger to yourself,” Brock says, keeping hold of Jack’s arm as he gets out.

The driveway is covered with only a dusting of snow, but there is definitely a sheet of ice underneath.

“Someone scoops your driveway?” Jack asks.

Brock doesn’t seem bothered by his friend’s scattered thoughts. “Yeah,” he says. “Girl across the street. Saving up for a car or something. She mows and stuff while I’m gone.”

The house is dark and chilly and smells stale. Brock turns up the thermostat before going back out to the car. He leaves Jack standing in the small living room, the snow on his boots melting onto the carpet. When Brock has the groceries put away and most of the appliances plugged back in, they decide go to bed. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but they’re jetlagged after their flight from Germany.

For some reason, Jack expects them to sleep separately. However, there’s only the king size bed in the master bedroom. They’ve _slept_ together but they’ve never actually slept together.

“Hope you don’t mind doubling up,” Brock says, pulling an electric blanket out of the closet.

Jack tells him it’s no problem. His face is still bandaged, stitched, and bruised so he can’t sleep on his stomach like he usually does. But the pain meds make falling asleep on his back very easy. Brock is already snoring softly when he nods off.

* * *

Jack starts awake in the darkness, chest tight with fear. For a few moments, he can feel the grit of sand in every fold and crevice of his body. He’s convinced he’s choking on blood, but there are only stitches in his mouth now. His skull is splitting with bone-deep pain. The kind of pain that just makes a man sit still and want to vomit.

Brock stirs when Jack throws back the covers, but he doesn’t wake up. Jack had the sense to put his bag of prescriptions on top of his dufflebag, which is sitting next to the bed. He somehow finds the bathroom in the dark, unfamiliar house and rips the bag open the second he has the light on. He swallows a pill with a few handfuls of cold water from the tap. Dizzy and nauseous, he sits on the edge of the bathtub and tries to take some deep, calming breaths. How can he be hurting this badly?

The nausea swells into a gag and Jack lifts the lid to the toilet just in time. He retches forcefully, but all that comes up is the undissolved pill and some yellowish bile. Jack is staring into the toilet, angry and miserable, when he sees Brock standing in the doorway. He is squinting in the light.

“You okay?” he asks, voice gravelly from sleep.

“I tried to take a pain pill and threw it up,” Jack says.

“Oh, you gotta take those with food, buddy.” Brock’s voice is full of uncharacteristic sympathy. It might be endearing if Jack wasn’t in so much pain.

“I dunno if I can…” Jack’s voice trails as Brock disappears from the doorway. He returns a few minutes later with a package of graham crackers and a glass of water.

“You don’t gotta eat a lot. But you can’t take that shit on an empty stomach,” Brock says, handing the crackers to Jack. “Sorry if they’re stale.”

Jack feels like an idiot. He probably would have remembered that, had he been thinking clearly at the time. Brock flushes the puke and sits on the toilet lid while Jack tears the package open. Jack is distressed to find that eating hurts. Talking is difficult, but chewing is just downright painful. He has to eat three crackers before Brock is satisfied. It helps, though. He’s still in pain, but the nausea is gone when he takes another pill.

Brock is blinking sleepily. “You all right?” he asks.

Jack nods even though his face is still killing him. He has no idea what time it is, but he feels the pull of sleep. Brock yawns and Jack has to physically resist the urge to mimic him.

The mattress is warm when they get back into bed and Jack is able to get comfortable immediately. He’s pulling the covers up as Brock slips in next to him. Their legs touch and Jack automatically lifts his arm so Brock can get as close as he wants. It’s a rare display of cuddliness from the man who never spends the night after sex. Jack isn’t about to squander it.

He tries to think of something sassy to say, but the narcotics in his system once again thwart him. “You’re warm,” he says instead.

“Really? I’m freezin’,” Brock says, snuggling in.

So Brock isn’t trying to be affectionate—he’s just cold. Jack will take it. 

* * *

It’s daylight when Brock opens his eyes again. The light filtering in through the blinds is dim and gray. Probably fucking snowing again. He has his arm slung across Jack’s broad chest and he can feel the steady rise and fall of it. Brock doesn’t want to move and disturb Jack’s sleep, but he’s wide awake. Jack makes a noise when Brock props himself up on an elbow.

He’s still overwhelmed by the sight of his friend’s injuries. The left side of Jack’s face is swollen and bruised from his fractured cheekbone and eye socket. Brock can only guess what the eye itself looks like right now, as it is obscured by a plastic eye shield and heavy bandaging. On the right side, Jack’s lip and chin are held together with nearly 70 stitches. Brock can already tell that it’s going to be one helluva scar.

Brock wonders if Jack has settled into the fact that he's permanently blind in his left eye. Probably not. The doctors made it sound like it would be a big adjustment, though. Brock is thinking about how Jack will cope when he has a horrible realization of his own.

Jack might be discharged from combat duty because of this injury. And it's not like the military where a man gets to go home and fight for benefits from the VA. There is no leaving HYDRA. But Brock can't picture Jack being stuck behind a desk or working security detail. Like Brock, Jack likes to be "in the shit," as they call it. It's one of the few things they have in common.

Brock is worried for his future too. They’ve only been partnered for a year, but Jack is the only person that Brock has ever enjoyed working with. He’s highly skilled and acquiescent in a way that Brock has never seen. Their opposing personalities seem to complement, rather than clash, with each other. It would be a great loss to not have Jack out in the field anymore.

Despite his sprained wrist—the annoying, restrictive brace long-discarded—Brock feels like he’s got a lot of miles left in him. But he doesn’t want to travel them without Jack. There’s no point in buying trouble, but he can’t shake the feeling that the trouble is already here.

Brock has his reservations about Jack staying with him, too. He’s not exactly known for his caretaking skills. But he didn’t like the idea of Jack being alone in the Triskelion for the entirety of his convalescence. He hopes that these living arrangements will make things easier for both of them.

“I’m gonna shower quick,” Brock says, patting Jack’s chest. “Just rest.”

Jack’s eyelid flutters. “I wanna shower,” he mumbles.

“You can take a bath when I’m done.” Brock hops off the bed and strips down. “Promise I won’t use all the hot water.”

He was able to take a quick shower at the HYDRA base in Germany, and he could have showered again at the Triskelion while they looked Jack over. But nothing compares to a shower in his own house, in his own bathroom. The water pressure is good, and he doesn’t have to worry about catching a disease. He wants to give himself a long, luxurious spray down, but he keeps his word and doesn’t deplete the water heater.

Jack doesn’t seem to remember wanting to bathe when Brock returns with water droplets on his bare shoulders, but he’s agreeable. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his clothes while Brock dresses. It looks like it’s a difficult task.

“Sore?” Brock asks, pulling a sweatshirt over his head.

“Just real stiff,” Jack clarifies.

“Hot water will help.”

Jack merely gives an affirmative grunt in response, which isn’t out of the ordinary. Brock actually finds it a little comforting. He sees that Jack’s face isn’t the only part of his body that’s bruised when he stands. His lightly freckled skin is marred by many contusions and scrapes. Jack seems to be moving okay, but Brock still awkwardly follows him to the bathroom. Jack comes to stand in front of the tub, pausing as if he’s surprised to find it already filled.

Brock hovers in the doorway. “You need help?” he asks.

“Got it,” Jack says. But he moves with hesitation as he steps into the water.

Brock feels kind of creepy for watching Jack as he navigates himself into bathtub. These nurturing, caretaker feelings are foreign to him, but he’s honestly worried about Jack falling. His partner was released into his care, and it would be pretty lame to bring him back to the Triskelion with new injuries.

Jack is very tall and has to lewdly splay his knees against the sides of the tub to get comfortable. “You gonna watch?” he asks.

“Don’t get your face wet,” Brock says, crossing his arms. “And don’t fall asleep and drown yourself.”

“Better leave the door open so you can check on me,” Jack teases.

“Yeah, I better.” And Brock does just that when he leaves, hand lingering on the doorframe as he turns the corner. 

* * *

The water is murky from mineral deposits and mercifully hot. Jack sinks down as far as he can without getting the bottom of his chin wet. Brock swears by baths—both hot and cold—for managing pain and now Jack understands why. The all-encompassing warmth does make him tired. He tilts his head back and rests his neck on the cool edge of the tub to keep himself awake while he rests.

He is well aware of the several unnecessary trips Brock makes to and from the bedroom, eyeing Jack as he busies himself with imaginary tasks. Jack thinks it’s kind of cute. Brock usually doesn’t worry about anyone but himself, so Jack can’t help but feel special in a weird way.

After a while, Jack makes a concerted effort to scrub himself clean. It feels good to get the smell of deserts and hospitals off his skin. The glass he drank from the night before is still sitting on the edge of the tub and he uses it to carefully wet his hair. Jack knows he could get away with not washing his hair; wetting it is probably enough. But much like scrubbing himself down, working a little shampoo into his hair and rinsing it out feels good. Some soapy water trickles down the side of his face, but he’s careful to keep his wounds dry.

Jack moves to get out of the tub, trying to be quiet by not disturbing the water too much. He doesn’t need an audience. The cooling water sloshes when he gets his legs underneath him, but Brock must not have heard. Jack thinks he can hear noises in the kitchen. Brock cooking is a scary thought. Jack is drying off his aching body with care when Brock appears in the doorway.

“Hey, you didn’t drown,” Brock says in mock amazement.

“I saw you literally every time you walked by,” Jack says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brock leans against the doorframe. “Feel human again?”

Jack nods, toweling off between his legs. Brock doesn’t seem the least bit interested in his friend’s nudity. That probably comes from his extensive military background.

Jack gestures towards the folded bundle of clothes in Brock’s arms. “You gonna dress me, too?”

“I think you mean to say _thank you_ , asshole,” Brock says. “I like you better when you’re high.”

“I like you better when I’m high too,” Jack says.

Brock comes into the bathroom and shoves the clothes at Jack. But he doesn’t leave. Instead he picks up the torn prescription bag that Jack left on the counter the night before. “You have drops you’re supposed to put in your eye like every twelve hours or somethin’,” he says.

Jack is a little confused by Brock’s abrupt change of subject. He’s probably due for another dose of painkillers too. “Didn’t know I had drops,” he says, pulling on a pair of sweatpants.

“And you wonder why I was worried about you drowning in the bathtub,” Brock says.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack is stricken by the sight of his face in the bathroom mirror. It’s not unlike staring at a stranger, but he finds it helpful to visualize all his hurts. He lightly touches the sutures that are holding his face together, running his fingertips over the little strings that stick out. Jack takes in a breath, runs a hand through his damp hair. Without gel, it falls around his head in unruly wisps.

Out of the corner of his only functioning eye, Jack can see that Brock is practically squirming with the desire to say something.

“You okay?” he finally asks.

Jack nods, having to glance down for a moment. His head is pounding. “Yeah. Suppose I should do those drops.”

Brock gets the first aid kit out from under the sink as Jack begins pulling away the medical tape that secures the bandaging over his eye. The tape tugging against his bruised skin is painful and Jack isn’t sure that he wants to see what’s underneath the gauze and plastic eyeshield.

“They said it would be pretty bad at first, but it’ll heal up and look normal,” Brock says.

“Normal,” Jack scoffs. He pauses for a moment, tilts his chin upward to see the extent of his stitches. “Fuckin’ Scarface here.”

Brock bites his bottom lip briefly. “I think scars are sexy,” he says.

Jack says nothing. He doesn’t want to hear that shit right now. Finally, finally all the tape is pulled away and Jack can remove the bandages. Brock is silent, but Jack can feel his eyes on him.

“Fuck,” Jack says.

All the tissue surrounding Jack’s eye is swollen and brilliantly bruised, eyelid purple and squinted. The sclera of his eye is full of blood and his eyelashes are crusted with something yellow. The eye is fully intact, but dull and completely sightless. The entire area is throbbing with a pain he can feel inside his skull.

“It’ll heal up,” Brock says again, like he’s trying to provide encouragement.

There are two different kinds of drops that Jack has to put in his eye. He doesn’t know what they’re for and he doesn’t care. He’s silent as he scans over the instructions. Jack reaches up and gingerly pulls down his bottom eyelid, exposing the battered inside of his eye. It seems they really did a number on him trying to fix it. Touching his face is painful and the drops probably aren’t going to make his eye feel any better. Jack is suddenly frustrated.

“Can you go away?” he asks, not looking away from the mirror.

Brock, who seems to be very invested in Jack’s eye, looks taken aback. “Uhh… Sure,” he says. He steps out of the room without another word.

Jack knows that Brock isn’t really the problem, but having someone watch him deal with this new and scary situation is too much at the moment. Jack feels like he can focus better with Brock gone. His blindness is apparent as he struggles to put the drops in. His depth perception is off and he pokes himself in the face with the tip of the little bottle. Jack curses loud enough that Brock can probably hear, but he doesn’t come to see if there’s a problem.

The first drops sting and blinking rapidly makes Jack’s eye spill over. He can’t tell if the second ones are as bad because his eye is still smarting when he puts them in. He uses Brock’s first aid kit to bandage his eye again. He’s not sure how long he’s supposed keep his eye bandaged, but it doesn’t matter. It feels good cover up some of the ugliness.

Pain is slowly edging into the periphery of Jack’s awareness as he walks into the kitchen. He needs to eat before he can take another dose of his medication, but the smell of bacon and eggs nauseates him.

Brock is in front the stove, using a spatula to scrape scrambled eggs onto a plate. Another skillet is sizzling with fatty pieces of bacon. There are two glasses and a carton of orange juice sitting on the little formica table but Jack decides he wants water instead. Brock doesn’t speak when Jack walks over to the sink and turns on the tap. The man is rarely silent, so Jack can’t help but wonder if he’s mad. Getting told to scram would be a stupid thing to get angry about, but they _did_ get into a fistfight over a spaghetti MRE one time.

Jack takes a sip of water. “Those drops sting like a motherfucker,” he says.

“That means they’re working,” Brock says dryly.

Jack moves away from the counter and sits down at the table, still feeling nauseous. His broken face is really starting to hurt. He watches with complete disinterest as Brock reaches back and pulls his boxer briefs out of his ass crack.

When the food is done, Jack can only bring himself to nibble on some toast at first. Jack tries to stay away from carbs, but it’s the one thing on the table that doesn’t make him want to hurl. The way Brock drowns everything on his plate in maple syrup is downright horrifying, too.

“That’s just wrong,” Jack says as he watches Brock eat a forkful of syrup-slathered eggs. “Syrup only goes on pancakes.”

“Syrup goes on everything,” Brock corrects.

“If you want diabetes,” Jack says with a snort.

Brock grins like that’s exactly what he wants.

After Jack takes his pain medication, he ventures to eat some scrambled eggs. Protein is never a bad thing. But the eggs are thick and creamy with milk mixed in, so Jack can only eat a little of them. He feels bad because Brock made them a substantial meal, but hearty and comforting food really isn’t what he wants right now.

“You can have something else if you want,” Brock says.

Jack shakes his head and finds out how sore his neck is. “I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

“That’s probably normal,” Brock says. “You went through hell.”

Jack sits at the table, quiet and miserable as he waits for the drugs to kick in. He figures he just needs to get on top of the pain and take doses before he’s hurting. That doesn’t help him now, though.

* * *

Brock leaves the dishes in the sink and gets a blanket to put Jack up on the couch. It’s a large, l-shaped sectional that allows Jack to stretch out on one side and Brock to sit on the other. Jack curls up, tucking the blanket under his mangled chin as the pain meds start to kick in.

Brock feels a bit lost with all this unexpected free time. He’s used to his life being planned out down to the minute, having a set wakeup time, and a day full of tasks to complete. It’s nice, but he’s not sure what to do with himself.

“You okay?” Brock asks as he turns the TV on.

“Mm-hmm,” Jack mumbles pleasantly.

Brock gives a sideways grin that Jack doesn’t see. He’s glad that Jack’s pain is gone, along with his grumpiness. Brock can’t blame him, though. He was a terror when he broke his pelvis in a parachuting accident. A nurse took a Jell-O cup to the face and he’s not proud to admit that he was the one who threw it at her.

Brock flips through channels and settles on hockey. He watches the players weave around on the scratched-up ice, using their sticks to scrabble for the puck. It’s not his favorite sport, but the fights are good.

“Makes me miss skating,” Jack says, sounding sad.

Brock looks at him. He thought Jack had dozed off. “Since when have you ice skated?” he asks.

Jack’s one eye is on the TV. “Used to play hockey,” he confirms.

“What? No way,” Brock says with a laugh.

He can see it, though. At 6’2”, Jack is massive. His broad shoulders would be perfect for slamming unsuspecting opponents into the boards. His thighs muscles are powerful, developed from nearly a lifetime of balancing on hockey blades.

“Started when I was five. Went to college on an athletic scholarship. Only way they’d let my dumb ass in,” Jack says.

Brock snorts. “I barely finished high school. No judgement here.”

It occurs to him that he and Jack have never really talked about their pasts. Despite working closely with each other for a year—and indulging in frequent, enthusiastic sexual encounters—they’ve never talked much. Jack is normally quiet and Brock knows he’s only opening up like this because he’s high. Brock is a bit chattier himself but he’s never seen any point in talking about his messed up childhood or anything like that. No one cares about that shit. They pretend they do, but they don’t. Regardless of his personal feelings, talking like this for a change is kind of nice.

“So how’d you end up in the Marines instead of the NHL?” Brock asks.

“They wouldn’t draft me. I played too rough,” Jack says. “Spent more time in the penalty box than out on the ice sometimes. They said I had anger issues.”

“Mmm, I’ve heard that one myself.”

“One time, I jabbed a guy with my stick, ruptured his spleen. He almost died from internal bleeding,” Jack says.

Brock is excited by the mention of such brutality. He feels like a dirty old man thinking about 18-year-old Jack putting on a hockey helmet, straps swaying pendulously on either side of his face. He pulls on a jockstrap, long underwear, and bulky pads. Slips a bite guard in his mouth. Jesus. That’ll be one for the next time he jerks off, for sure.

“Sounds like you were pretty vicious,” Brock muses.

“Like I said, anger issues. My daddy didn’t love me. I didn’t get hugged enough,” Jack says.

Brock nods. He’s heard that one too. “Well, at least we’re not responsible for our actions, right?”

Jack laughs, a rusty but pleasant sound. They watch TV in comfortable silence for a long time. When the hockey match is over, Brock flips through channels until he gets to _Cops_. That show seems to be their speed, too. Jack snoozes while Brock tries to remember the last time he sat down and watched TV. 

* * *

Jack is lying on the couch, caught somewhere between sleep and awareness, when there’s a loud, metallic crash in the kitchen. It sounds like a dish hitting the linoleum. Brock curses. Jack lifts his head and realizes he’s been napping in his own drool. He sits up slowly, scooting himself so he’s leaning against the back of the couch. He’s not hurting, but his head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds when he turns to look out the window.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but the streetlights are on because it’s so cloudy outside. Jack can’t tell if it’s snowing or if the flakes are just being blown around on the wind. The branches of the naked trees sway and Jack thinks they look like they’re shivering. Jack is a bit shivery himself. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders like a cape before he ventures into the kitchen.

“Oh, sorry I woke you up,” Brock says. “Dropped a pan I was washing.”

Jack tells him that he wasn’t really asleep. He doesn’t want to get in Brock’s way, so he sits at the kitchen table. Brock heats up canned soup for dinner, which Jack finds more palatable than what they had for their late breakfast.

“Figured soup might be easier on ya,” Brock says as he sets the table.

Jack has a hard time ladling soup into his bowl. It’s obvious to him that his vision is off, and having Brock staring doesn’t help either. He knows that Brock isn’t being judgemental or malicious, but it frustrates Jack in a way he doesn’t understand. He manages to not snap at Brock when he asks if he needs help.

“Lemme do it,” Jack insists. “I gotta figure this out.”

He gets the soup into the bowl without spilling any and feels accomplished, so he thinks nothing of pouring himself a glass of milk. Jack thinks he has the carton and the glass lined up, but when he pours, milk spills on the table. He didn’t have the carton over the glass like he thought he did.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jack growls, thudding the carton down.

Brock is already out of his chair before Jack can heave himself upward. He throws a few paper towels down to sop up the spill.

“Sorry,” Jack says. “Shit.”

Brock waves him off. “It’s your depth perception. It’s different now with only one eye,” he says. “You’ll get used to it.”

Jack is silent for a moment, stricken into wordlessness by the terrible thought that just occurred to him. He stares at Brock as the other man sits down again. “How am I supposed to shoot a gun with only one eye?” he asks.

“Same as people who close one eye to aim,” Brock says.

“But if I don’t have any depth perception, then I’m fucked.”

Brock considers for a moment as he spoons soup into his own bowl. He’s the more experienced marksman of the two and has ten years on Jack in general. “You might have problems shooting long range,” he says. “But I think you’ll figure out how to compensate.”

Jack doesn’t feel like Brock is fully appreciating the gravity of this situation. His mind is suddenly a gaping pit of unanswered questions and anxiety. He can deal with a fucked up face for the rest of his life, but what is he supposed to do if they discharge him?

“What if I can’t pass a range test?” he asks.

“You’ll pass a range test,” Brock says. His voice is neutral, neither encouraging nor dismissive. “I’ll take you out and we’ll practice.”

Jack pauses, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “What if I get discharged?”

Brock sets down his spoon and fixes his gaze on Jack. He speaks like he’s worried others will hear. “HYDRA isn’t gonna get rid of you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says.

“You know I’m talkin’ about combat duty,” Jack says. He knows full well that there’s no escaping HYDRA. He’s known that since the beginning. “That’s all I’m good at, Brock.”

“I know. Me too. But you can’t worry about that right now. You gotta focus on getting better,” Brock says. “Don’t buy trouble, man.”

Jack takes a deep breath and nods, even though his heart is hammering. It’s gonna take him a bit to calm down, but Brock is right. When he looks up, Brock is still staring at him.

“I get it. You like the structure, the camaraderie, getting to carry a gun. That gets my dick hard too,” Brock says. “But I’ve tried to make a career out of being a soldier. And I got a fucked up back, no cartilage in my knees, and a whole lotta nightmares for my trouble. All I’m saying is, there’s more to life.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMST is going to be longer than five chapters! Possibly six or seven. There's an end in sight, just not next week. :)

The wind is howling around the eaves of the house when Brock and Jack climb into bed that night. At Jack’s request, Brock sets an alarm so he can wake up and take his pain medication on schedule. Jack settles in on his back and Brock moves in close again, snuggling against him.

“You cold or do you actually wanna cuddle?” Jack asks, shifting to accommodate the other man.

Brock grins. “Both?”

Jack is surprised when Brock leans in and kisses him. Not like they’ve never kissed before, but the contact of their mouths has always been searching and hungry. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses full of tongue and spit and teeth. Hot, heaving pants and moans. But there’s none of that now. Just Brock pressing a careful kiss against the uninjured corner of Jack’s mouth.

“Well, ain’t you sweet,” Jack says, stroking the back of Brock’s head.

“Just glad you’re here with me,” Brock says quietly. “Glad you made it.”

Jack pulls Brock into another kiss, silencing him. He decides that neither of them need to spend this moment thinking about what happened. Brock slips his hand under the blankets, rubbing Jack’s lower abdomen before ghosting his hand over his crotch.

Jack makes a noise in the back of his throat and his cock twitches from the idea of a handjob. It’s been a long time since they’ve screwed around together. While he recognizes his own feelings of arousal, he’s not sure he’s going to be able to do much about them. The loopiness from the last dose of painkillers he took has worn off, but it’s still in his system.

“I dunno, Brock,” Jack says when he feels the man’s fingertips slipping under his waistband.

Brock stops immediately, a rare show of consent between them. “You don’t want it?” he asks.

“I do. Just dunno if I’ll be able to get it up, is all,” Jack says.

Brock shrugs. “You want to try?” he asks. “Up to you.”

Jack nods and angles himself to the side, stuffing his own hand down the front of Brock’s underwear. He finds Brock already half hard, cock warm and heavy against his thigh.

“What’s got you all riled up?” Jack asks, voice low.

“Been a while,” Brock says with another wolfish grin.

He punctuates the end of his sentence with a quiet groan as Jack starts to stroke his cock. Brock mirrors Jack’s movements, trying to coax his dick into an erection. It takes a few moments, but Jack does get a decent boner in his shorts.

Jack is aroused. His dick is hard and Brock’s touches feel good. But anything beyond baseline pleasure seems impossible. Brock’s cockhead is already leaking precome when Jack tells him this.

“Poor guy,” Brock says, slowing the strokes of his hand. “You wanna try a little oral?”

“I dunno how I’m supposed to return the favor…”

But Brock is already wriggling further down on the bed, pulling Jack’s cock out of his sweatpants. Jack hisses through his teeth when Brock leans down and licks his cockhead with the flat part of his tongue. He puts his hand on the nape of Brock’s neck and he can tell that Brock expects to be forced down. It’s what he’s used to. But this time Jack needs contact to keep him tethered to Earth.

“Gentle,” Jack pleads.

Brock’s eyes flick upward, settling on Jack’s face for a moment. Jack can feel him staring, even in the darkness. Suddenly, Jack feels ugly and scrutinized. It all comes tumbling down on him at once. He’s never been smart and he’s not very funny, but at least he was attractive. That’s not the case anymore.

Jack’s thoughts are broken by the sensation of Brock’s mouth enveloping most of his cock. He tightens his grip on the back of Brock’s neck and the man hums in response, sending pleasurable reverberations all the way down to Jack’s balls. For insisting he’s not a fag, Brock sure is good at sucking dick. He says it’s just one of many skills he’s picked up in the military, but Jack knows the truth. They’re both cock-thirsty faggots. No amount of denial will make it not true.

Usually this sick actuality excites Jack, but his mind is elsewhere. His thoughts are so scattered that he can’t even get any dirty talk going. He just grunts softly and tries to help himself along by thinking sexually deviant thoughts about Brock.

Brock slides his mouth up and down, working his wet tongue along the underside of Jack’s shaft. It’s a lot to handle after such a long and sexless time overseas, and Jack knows that he should at least be close at this point. But he’s not. He should be breathless and coming down Brock’s throat, or maybe pulling him back by the hair and shooting all over his face. Just the way Brock likes. Instead, he’s stuck.

It’s just another level of distress on top of everything else he’s feeling at the moment. Jack is honestly baffled that someone as handsome and preening as Brock is doing this with the likes of him. All these negative thoughts are ridiculous because Brock wouldn’t be sucking his dick if he didn’t want to. But the feelings are there.

Jack moves his hand from the back of Brock’s neck to the side of his face. He tenderly pats one of Brock’s sharp cheekbones. “I don’t think anything’s gonna happen, baby,” he says.

Brock pulls off Jack’s dick with a crude, wet pop. “That bad, huh?” he asks, wiping his chin. He sounds like he’s only half joking.

“It’s not you. It’s the oxy,” Jack says. “I told you I was gonna have trouble.”

Brock nods in understanding, but still seems frustrated. “When I busted my pelvis, I thought they broke my dick when they put my hips back together. I couldn’t get it up. Turns out it was just all the drugs they had me on. It’s normal.”

Jack nods. “Thanks for trying, though,” he says, patting Brock’s hip. “I feel bad.”

“Don’t give up just yet. I’ve got another trick up my sleeve.” Brock leans over and yanks open his nightstand drawer. Jack doesn’t have to look to know that he’s rummaging for condoms and lube.

“I don’t want anything in my ass right now,” Jack says, deciding to make that clear.

Brock snorts as he strips his lower half. “I can’t even remember the last time you took one for the team, my man.”

“Bogotá,” Jack says. “And you’ve got a shitty memory, because it wasn’t that long ago.”

Brock swings a leg over Jack’s body, straddling him. He leans down and kisses Jack again, murmuring that he doesn’t have to kiss back if it hurts. Truthfully, it _does_ hurt to move his mouth like that. But Brock doesn’t seem bothered by the lack of reciprocation. Jack can tell that the older man is hungry for a fuck, even if things are a little awkward right now.

“Who’s doin’ the honors?” Jack asks, gesturing to the lubricant.

“Pretty sure I just sucked your dick, so...” Brock says, voice trailing. He speaks like Jack has forgotten the frustrating sensation of not being able to come.

Under normal circumstances, Jack is able to deal with Brock’s mouthiness without getting irritated. But he finds himself a bit annoyed as Brock settles down against him, knees lewdly splayed for easy access to his hind end. Jack knows this is where he tells Brock that he wants to stop, but he doesn’t want to hear Brock make comments about it for the rest of his life. It will be easier to work a few fingers inside him to shut him up, then fuck the sass out of him.

Brock heaves a content sigh and nuzzles Jack’s scruffy jaw and neck. His cock is stiff and warm where it’s trapped between their two muscular bodies. He rolls his hips against Jack’s torso, kisses his bruised collarbone.

Jack slicks up his fingers in the darkness, working by feel. Good thing he’s done this a few times. Brock stills when Jack parts him with one hand. There’s no talking it out, no interlude. Jack teases Brock’s ass for only a few seconds before he’s pressing a finger inside.

“Fuck,” Brock hisses, squirming against the cold, slippery intrusion.

Jack knows this is the way Brock likes it, so he doesn’t ask if he’s okay. The only comfort he offers is an arm wrapped around Brock’s back. Jack tries to focus on the things that normally arouse him—the subtle flex and flutter of Brock’s muscles around his fingers, Brock’s hitched breathing and hot breath against his throat. Jack is hard and he wants to make Brock feel good, but the enthusiasm just isn’t there.

Brock moans when Jack slips another finger inside him and edges against his prostate. Jack gives a soft chuckle, squeezing Brock around the back.

“Found your sweet spot, hm?” he asks.

“Should know where it’s at by now,” Brock says with a laugh.

Brock’s thigh muscles tremble when he sits up, and his cock is so hard that it’s standing out heavy and straight. Jack pulls his fingers out, knowing Brock has had enough. He rarely ever gets three fingers inside him, unless Brock specifically asks to be fingered. It’s not a secret that Brock is a bit of a masochist. He’s whispered to Jack that his favorite sensation is the burning sting of getting stretched wide on a thick cock. That and having his stupid douchebag hair yanked on.

“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” Jack says, sliding his hands up and down Brock’s shapely thighs. He loves the way goosebumps are quick to rise wherever he touches.

“You’re lookin’ pretty good yourself,” Brock says.

Jack doesn’t take the compliment to heart. He’s not looking good at all. Brock is just saying that to ensure he gets a decent fuck. Jack picks up a condom, but can’t open it because his fingers are still too slick. Brock opens it for him; Jack rolls it down the length of his dick. He coats himself with a fairly generous amount of lube, hoping to compensate for Brock’s aversion to proper preparation.

Jack uses one hand to spread Brock open again, and uses the other to grasp his dick. He glides his slippery cockhead over Brock’s hole, teasing him a tiny bit. Brock presses back against the first hint of contact. He hisses as Jack starts to push inside, a sound that instinctively tells Jack to stop. But he continues, slow and steady, and watches Brock’s face for any signs of actual discomfort. Brock’s eyes are closed, his mouth open. In the darkness, Jack can see the white of his bared teeth. He growls softly.

There is resistance in Brock’s muscles and Jack wants to give him time to adjust, but he knows Brock will complain if he pauses. Jack slides in until he’s balls deep and nearly breathless from the tight clamp that Brock’s body has on him.

“Oh… oh, fuck…” Brock groans.

Despite all the pleasurable stimulation, Jack is worried that he won’t be able to keep it up for long. He grabs Brock’s sides to keep him fully seated on his dick and then rolls his hips. Brock makes a choked sound that is equal parts surprised and horny. Jack usually likes to go slow and build things up, but he wants to get Brock off and be done. Brock doesn’t seem to oppose this.

“Gonna do ya real rough,” Jack says, voice low. “You want that?”

Brock nods once; he’s already breathing hard. “Pound me.”

Jack tightens his grip on Brock’s hips and starts to fuck him in short, sharp thrusts. Brock reaches up with both hands and grabs at his own pecs, playing with his nipples. He hisses through his teeth, grunts repeatedly. It feels good, but Jack is strangely removed from the situation as he continues to bounce Brock on his dick. He knows he’s not going to come, so he doesn’t bother finding the best angle inside Brock’s body. The squeeze of Brock’s muscles, the weight of his body, even the noises he’s making are suddenly irritating. He’s not into this at all.

“I wanna stop,” Jack says, slowing his thrusts until he’s not moving anymore.

Brock is panting. He runs a hand through his hair. “What’s the matter?” he asks, sounding confused.

“Nothing. I just… I don’t wanna do this anymore,” Jack says.

There’s a subtle shift in Brock’s body language. Jack expects Brock to be disappointed, but ultimately understanding. His cock is going soft inside Brock and he moves to pull out.

“So you’re not gonna let me finish?” Brock asks. There’s an annoying, entitled edge to his voice that makes Jack angry.

“Look, I’ll finger you,” Jack says. “But this isn’t working for me. C’mon, up.”

Brock snorts. He doesn’t move. “I can do that myself, but thanks. Wouldn’t be sittin’ on your dick if that’s what I wanted,” he says.

“Get offa me,” Jack says, snatching Brock by his upper arms. If he won’t get off his dick, he’ll forcibly remove him.

Brock squawks in pain. “You’re hurtin’ me, you fuckin’ fag!”

Jack hits Brock across the face with a heavy, open-handed slap that stings his palm. Immediately, Jack knows he made a mistake. Brock’s mouth is open, but he’s silent. Jack lays there, expecting Brock to start beating the hell out of him. The silence is more frightening than Brock reacting with his usual violence. Jack is an expert in hand-to-hand combat, but he doesn’t know how to deal with Brock’s frosty quiet.

Brock sits up on his knees, sliding Jack’s dick out of himself, and gets off the bed. He doesn’t even slam the door behind him when he leaves the room.

Jack lays there in the dark for a few minutes, listening for Brock coming back with a knife or something. But everything is quiet except for the wind outside. While he cleans up, Jack wonders why he didn’t just finish Brock off. Probably should have turned him down right in the beginning.

His body is aching with fatigue and bruised muscles when he gets out of bed. The house is pitch black and Jack has to put his hand on the wall to find his way down the hall. The kitchen is empty and the tile floor is cold on his bare feet.

Jack finds Brock in the living room, sitting on the couch in the dark. He’s leaned over and looking out the picture window, watching the snow come down. The sodium-vapor streetlights cast him in a yellowish glow. Jack watches as Brock brings a cigarette to his lips. The cherry burns brighter as he inhales; smoke curls around him in slow-moving wisps.

“You’re smoking?” Jack asks. He can’t think of anything else to say.

Brock takes another drag before he speaks. “Yeah, the sex was so good I just couldn’t resist.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you for the lovely comments you have all been leaving me. It's people like you who make writing worthwhile.

Brock doesn’t usually smoke. He’s one of those people that can randomly start and stop without getting addicted. He’ll bat his eyelashes and bum a cigarette off someone at a bar, maybe smoke a few after a particularly fucked up mission. Like fucking men, it’s one of the many habits he’s picked up in the military.

Brock takes another drag off his cigarette and keeps looking out the window. He hasn’t turned to look at Jack yet. He doesn’t want to, because it’ll probably make him feel guilty.

“I shouldn’t have hit you,” Jack says. “Come back to bed.”

“No,” Brock says evenly.

Jack sighs, a sharp exhalation through his nose. “You want me to go?”

“I’m not kicking you out just ‘cause you hit me, idiot,” Brock says. “Wasn’t even an actual punch.”

It did sting. Jack hits hard. But rather than being angry, Brock finds himself thinking that he deserved it. Maybe that’s just his inner battered child speaking, but Brock is having a hard time maintaining what little anger he felt in the first place.

After a few moments of silence, Jack speaks again. “I’m sorry. I should have turned you down right in the beginning.”

Brock tilts his head back, blows smoke up at the ceiling. He knows that apologies from Jack don’t come easy, if at all. Jack must really be feeling bad and it only softens Brock further. “I probably forced your hand a bit. I’m pretty persuasive. Especially when there’s dick involved,” he says.

“You didn’t force me. I wanted to, at first.”

Brock finally looks away from the window. Jack is standing pale and naked in the doorway to the living room. It’s probably just the eerie lighting, but he looks like absolute hell. Brock realizes that tonight was not a good time to screw around.

“Nah, I shoulda been lettin’ you rest,” he says.

Brock pats the spot next to him on the couch. Jack doesn’t hesitate to sit down next to him, but he moves with the caution of an injured man.

“Snowing?” Jack asks.

“Yeah, it’s real pretty,” Brock says, looking out the window again.

Down the street, there’s beeping and the low growl of a diesel engine. The beeping stops, then a plow blade starts scraping up snow. The noise gets louder before the snowplow passes the house, yellow emergency lights flashing.

“I don’t think I could leave even if you wanted me to,” Jack says with a little laugh.

“Pretty well snowed in, I’d say,” Brock agrees. "Guess you're stuck with me."

“Will you at least let me finish you off?” Jack asks. “Since I hit you, and all. I feel bad.”

Brock is caught off guard by Jack’s proposal. “I don’t need a pity fingering,” he says dismissively.

“It’s not pity.”

“I don’t need a guilt fingering, either.”

Jack reaches over and cups Brock’s chin, turning his face away from the snow falling outside. There’s no force behind the gesture, but Brock still has to resist the urge to pull away. Romantic shit is awkward for him.

“What about me fingering you just because I wanna make you feel good?” he asks. “And because you moan pretty?"

"You really like those dying animal noises I make when I get going?" Brock asks with a laugh. He turns to grind out his cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray on the end table. Man, he sure makes some ugly sounds when he's getting nailed just right.

His laughter continues when Jack drags him down to his end of the couch. Brock is feeling feisty and wants to roughhouse with Jack so badly. It's what lead to them getting all gay on each other for the first time. But Jack is in no condition for anything of the sort and it seems Brock isn't either. He hisses at the unexpected pain he feels when Jack grabs him by the upper arms.

Jack releases Brock immediately. "Shit, did I hurt you?" he asks.

"Back of my arms are sore is all," Brock says, straddling Jack's lap. He's embarrassed that he reacted so noticeably.

"Oh, from when I grabbed ya?" Jack asks. He seems pained by this, which makes Brock regret his reaction even more.

"It's nothin', just bruised," Brock says.

Jack places his big, calloused hands on Brock's tanned shoulders and slides them up either side of his neck. He cups Brock's sharp, bony face in his palms. Once again, Brock is blindsided by Jack's show of tenderness. He doesn't know what to do except pull away, but he manages to remain still. He wonders if Jack can feel his pulse jumping in his throat.

"That was wrong of me," Jack says.

Brock laughs, but it comes out nervous and nearly hysterical. "Jack, one time I punched you so hard that I broke one of your molars. And another time you threw a clip at me and busted my eyebrow open. This ain't nothin'," he says. "It's all right."

“The clip was an accident,” Jack reminds.

Brock gasps as Jack reaches down and grabs two handfuls of his muscular ass, giving the lightly furred flesh a rough squeeze. Brock flexes in Jack’s grasp and gives a contented moan. Jack seems to know what he needs, and that gives Brock a definite thrill. He leans forward and rests his head on Jack’s shoulder, breathing in his warm, neutral scent.

Jack slides one hand between Brock’s cheeks and his searching fingers find his hole, still open and slick. He makes a noise in his throat, a low and pleasant growl.

“Still nice an’ wet for me,” he says, pressing two fingers in at once.

This intrusion is nothing compared to Jack’s dick—not as intense—but it still feels good. Brock shifts and groans as he feels his cock twitch in response to the stimulation.

“Jerk me off too?” Brock asks, kissing Jack’s neck. His mouth travels down to the jut of the man’s collarbone, where he places more hungry kisses. Jack fingering him has got him riled up all over again. “Please, baby.”

“Whiny little slut,” Jack mumbles, sliding his fingers in and out, getting the slippery wetness going again.

Brock shivers and moans; gooseflesh rises on his back. Jack’s fingers are edging near his prostate, but the angle isn’t quite right. He’s being teased. Jack turns his head away for a moment and licks the palm of his unoccupied hand. He makes a loose, spit-slickened fist around Brock’s dick and starts jerking him off in measured strokes.

“Oooh,” Brock whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s almost too much.

After a few moments, Jack hooks his fingers inside Brock and starts rubbing relentlessly. Brock yelps, squirming with both intense pleasure and a sudden urge to urinate. The first time he felt this sensation, he asked Jack to stop because he really thought he was going to piss. But now, if Brock is being honest, he finds it enjoyable. Brock’s knees tremble with the intensity of it and his cock is leaking precome. He’s awash with pleasure and arousal deep inside him, pooling in his belly like molten metal.

Brock can’t help it. He starts to rock back against Jack’s hand, fucking himself on his fingers. It’s pleasurable, but it also makes his damn knees stop shaking like it’s his first time.

“You’re so cute when you get all shaky,” Jack says.

Brock’s face feels hot and he’s glad the room is dark. He wants to make a comment about being old and rattling to pieces, but instead he gives a sharp groan. Jack asks if he’s close and Brock can only nod against his shoulder. He makes another noise—this one not entirely human—when Jack starts moving his hands a little faster.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Brock pleads when he finds his words again. “Don’t.”

Jack gives some sort of reassurance, but Brock doesn’t exactly hear the words. His orgasm rises up through his body and leaves him hot and tingly all over. He comes in a few forceful spurts, coating Jack’s hand with semen and dripping some onto his abdomen.

With the tension gone out of his shoulders, Brock slumps against Jack. There is a sheen of sweat gathered in the small of his back and he’s breathing heavily. He peppers Jack’s neck with grateful kisses.

His muscles feel pleasantly loosened from his bones as he settles into bed, sleepily searching for Jack’s warmth next to him. Brock usually prefers to sleep alone; he sprawls out and tends to steal covers. But having Jack on the other side of the bed, occupying space and breathing evenly, is a comfort that Brock didn’t know he needed. He likes having Jack around.

* * *

For Jack, the days start to pass in a heavily medicated blur. Aside from the pain and the unfamiliar limitations of living with one eye, things are good. Brock and Jack slip into a routine and the mundane, unexciting days run together like they’ve been touched by an Impressionist’s brush.

They both go a bit stir crazy at times; Brock endeavors to put on thermal tights and go running when it’s not too cold and icy out. When Jack tells him he looks gay, Brock merely pulls at the stretchy material and snaps it against his thigh, taunting him with his own sexuality.

After a week of staying with Brock, the stitches in Jack’s mouth are dissolving. He’s eating when he feels something foreign between his teeth. He pulls it out and finds that it’s a perfect knot of clear suture thread.

“Look,” Jack says, putting it in his palm to show Brock.

He’s not at all surprised when Brock reacts with genuine interest and takes the tiny knot from him. He knows Brock likes weird stuff like that. Jack is a bit grossed out himself, but it’s obvious that Brock is more fascinated than anything.

“You’re healing up,” Brock says, rolling the little piece of thread in his fingers.

Soon the rest of the sutures begin itching and they check every day to see if they’re ready to come out. It’s difficult with Jack’s growing facial hair, but he can’t shave with the stitches.

“Didn’t know you were one of those weirdos with red facial hair,” Brock says.

“At least it’s not going gray,” Jack counters. It shuts Brock up so well that Jack is proud of himself for a long time afterward.

On the ninth day, they sit in the sunny spot on the couch. Jack lays his head in Brock’s lap while he gently tugs all the stitches out of his lip and chin. Admittedly, Jack is a little nervous with Brock—who isn’t known for his finesse—coming at him with a pair of scissors.

“Just don’t take my other eye out,” he says.

Brock grins down at him and that does very little to comfort Jack. He’s surprised by Brock’s gentleness. The normally impatient man isn’t in a hurry as he pulls the little pieces of thread out with tweezers.

“They’re coming out nice,” Brock comments. He pauses so Jack can talk.

“How’s the scar look?” Jack asks.

“Makes ya look tough.”

“For bringing in a plastic surgeon to sew it up, it’s pretty gnarly,” Jack says bitterly.

Brock is quiet for a moment. “You know I’m not squeamish, right?” he asks. When Jack makes an affirmative noise, Brock continues. “Well, seein’ your face when it was cut up made me sick to my stomach. It was down to the bone.”

“So you’re sayin’ I should be grateful?” Jack asks.

“No. I’m just telling you why it’s scarred so bad,” Brock says. “I think you look great—”

Jack cuts Brock off with a derisive snort. “All things considered, right?”

“I was bein’ sincere. Now shut the hell up so I can take the rest of these out.”

Brock seems annoyed that his honest compliment was interrupted. Jack shuts his mouth and closes his eye. He would apologize, but he thinks Brock’s flattery is misplaced. He’s disfigured.

* * *

The streets are more navigable when Brock takes Jack to the Triskelion at the end of the week. He has a doctor’s appointment and Brock has a meeting around the same time. Brock can tell that Jack wants to ask about the meeting, but knows better than to raise questions. Even Brock forgets that he outranks Jack sometimes. He sees them more as equal partners than anything else. As he drives, Brock wonders if that’s a dangerous way of thinking.

Despite the uncomfortable air of mystery, Jack seems relieved that Brock won’t be accompanying him to his appointment like a worried spouse. Instead, they part ways in a glass elevator.

Agent John Garrett is the kind of man that looks uncomfortable sitting behind a desk. Brock knows the feeling. The office is small and sparsely decorated; it’s obvious that he only uses it for meetings such as these. Garrett doesn’t move from his chair when Brock enters.

“Agent Rumlow, how are we?” he asks pleasantly.

Brock is already eyeing the manila envelope sitting on Garrett’s otherwise barren desk. “Doing well, thanks,” he says.

“Sorry to hear about your partner. Sounds like you and Agent Rollins went through hell,” Garrett says. “Have a seat.”

Brock doesn’t like that Garrett talks about Jack like he’s dead. He doesn’t want to sit down, either. But he remembers his place and obeys the command.

“I know you’re on leave, but I promise I won’t waste too much of your time. I’m a busy man myself,” Garrett says.

He is dressed in black tactical clothing and his forehead is shiny with sweat. Probably in between training recruits and eager to get back to it. Rumlow remembers Garrett’s enthusiasm with a noxious mixture of fear and admiration. Becoming an Army Ranger shaped Brock into the perfect soldier, but Garrett made him so much more.

“I already have a new op for you.” Garrett slides the manila envelope toward Brock. “How would you like to be a Commanding Officer of a STRIKE Team? While meeting more important objectives at the same time, of course.”

Brock picks up the packet, but does not open it. He can feel his pulse in his temples. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve always been impressed by your leadership, Brock. And risking your own life to save an injured comrade is something that will never go unrecognized within our organization,” Garrett says.

Brock hesitates. This is where he accepts his new position with gratefulness and fervor, but something is holding him back. Thankfully, Garrett doesn’t seem bothered by Brock’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Do you happen to have the operatives chosen for the team?” Brock asks.

“There’s a full roster inside,” Garrett says, nodding toward the packet.

“I don’t like to ask for favors,” Brock says. “But I have someone in mind for my second-in-command.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is. The last chapter of SMST. There will be a small epilogue after this, which I'll try to get done before the end of the week.

Jack can tell that something is going on when Brock meets him on the infirmary floor. He has some news of his own, and it’s not necessarily good. He feels ugly and exposed with his bandaging and eyeshield gone. During his appointment, the doctor removed his dressings and threw them away, cheerfully telling Jack that he didn’t need them anymore.

“How’d it go?” Brock asks. He already has his coat on and his keys in hand. There is a thick manila envelope tucked under his arm. “No more bandages, huh?”

Brock is grinning, but his expression fades when he sees that Jack isn’t experiencing the same emotion.

Jack stands. “No more bandages,” he confirms.

They start walking down the hallway together. Brock is on Jack’s left side and completely invisible to him as they make their way toward the elevator.

“You’re talkin’ like that’s a bad thing,” Brock says. The envelope crinkles under his arm as he moves.

“Well, it turns out that the blindness isn’t the only problem with my eye,” Jack says when they reach the end of the hallway. Jack hits the button to summon the elevator. It’s a few floors down.

Brock looks worried. “Shit, really?” he asks.

Jack nods. The problem is very obvious to him and he’s surprised that Brock hasn’t noticed yet. “When they did the surgery to try and fix my retina, they damaged some of the muscle in my eye,” he says. “So I’ve got a fuckin’ lazy eye on top of everything else.”

The elevator opens and they step inside. They’re alone for the entire ride down to the parking garage.

“They can’t fix it?” Brock asks. “Not like it needs to be, unless...”

“I didn’t even ask,” Jack says when Brock’s voice trails. “I don’t want more surgery.”

“I know, but you should if it’s going to bother you.”

“Nah, I’m sure I’ll adjust to being ugly as fuck.”

Brock gives a short, irritated sigh. “I’m not gonna listen to you talk shit about yourself,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Jack.”

Jack is silent, chewing on the inside of his scarred cheek. He’s angry. Can’t catch a fucking break.

The parking garage is cold and dimly lighted. Brock has a piece of gravel stuck in the tread of his boot and Jack hears it gritting against the concrete as they approach Brock’s car. Jack can feel that Brock has a lot to say and he desperately wants to change the subject.

“Well, I hope you have better news than me,” Jack says. “Or maybe you’re not supposed to tell me.”

Brock laughs. The vapor of his breath hangs in the frigid air. “I had a little meeting with Garrett,” he says. “He asked me if I wanted to be a Commanding Officer of a STRIKE Team.”

Jack’s chest gets tight for reasons he doesn’t immediately understand. He realizes he’s both proud and jealous. “Wow, I’m really happy for you, man,” he says, slowing his pace and turning to face Brock.

“But I told him I had a condition,” Brock says.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Brock confirms. “I told him I’d only take the job if I had you as my second-in-command.”

Jack’s reaction is abrupt and violent. He punches Brock in the jaw so hard that he falls to the pavement. “Are you fucking stupid?” he yells. His booming voice echoes in the cavernous space.

Brock’s mouth is bleeding, but he recovers quickly. “I _thought_ you would be grateful,” he says, still on the ground.

“You get offered this fucking great opportunity and you piss it down your leg? Because of me?” Jack is furious. “A spec ops team isn’t gonna take me, you stupid prick!”

“Just fucking relax,” Brock says, holding up a hand like he’s afraid Jack will hit him again. “He told me you’d have to pass a range test and stuff.”

“You and I both know that’s not going to fucking happen,” Jack snarls. “And I don’t want your little pity position.”

Brock touches the corner of his bloody mouth, wincing. Despite their mutual proclivity for brutality, it’s obvious that Brock is stunned. “Jesus Christ, Jack.”

Jack turns away from Brock and runs a hand through his hair. He can’t believe that Brock would do something this stupid. He knows that Brock has always wanted to work in covert affairs and this is the gig that he has been waiting for. Jack doesn’t understand why Brock would be willing to sacrifice that for him.

“Don’t you get it?” Brock asks, finally dragging himself to his feet.

Jack whirls around and throws his arms into the air. “I really don’t, Brock.”

“It’s not pity,” Brock says. “I want you with me. I would have asked Garrett to put you on the roster regardless. I need you on my team. You know how well we work together. I thought you’d want that.”

Jack is agitated by the mixture of anger and regret he feels. He still thinks Brock is being an idiot, but he feels bad for hitting him. He knows that Brock can take a punch. However, this is the second time that he’s injured Brock since they’ve been stateside. It’s not right.

“I do want that. But I don’t want to hold you back,” Jack says.

“You’ve never held me back,” Brock says. There’s a pause as he tries to suppress a grin and fails. “Except when I needed you to.”

Jack barks out a laugh. It’s true. He’s prevented Brock from getting into a fistfight on three or four occasions.

* * *

Brock puts on sunglasses before he pulls out of the parking garage. It’s sunny and the roads are bleached with salt. His face is aching where Jack popped him, but it’s not bad considering how hard Jack can hit. He can still taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. Brock isn’t angry, but he’s tired of getting smacked around by Jack. If he puts his hands on Brock again, he’s going to experience some retaliation.

It’s mid-afternoon and the roads are already becoming congested with rush hour traffic. Brock told Jack to look at the envelope and use the contents to help him come to a decision.

“How soon is Garrett wanting to move on this?” Jack asks, shuffling some papers in his lap.

“March,” Brock says. “We’ve got about a month and a half.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Jack says.

Brock rolls his eyes. He knows that Jack is under a lot of stress and dealing with a considerable amount of pain. Even though the doctor removed Jack’s bandages, the sclera of his eye is still red with blood. His cheekbone and eye socket are still broken; the surrounding flesh is still bruised and swollen. His body is absorbing the blood that leaked into the various tissues, making all the colors look tired and faded. It’s a slow process, but he’s healing.

Brock wishes Jack was healing mentally, too. The changes have been subtle, but it’s obvious that he’s not the same person that Brock went overseas with. Jack scares himself awake with nightmares at least once a night and his confidence is nonexistent. He dismisses any compliment Brock gives him and he hasn’t been doing anything with his hair. Jack has never been as preening and vain as Brock, but he’s always taken care of himself. Brock is worried for him.

“I think it’ll be fun,” Brock says when they come to an intersection. “Go to the indoor range in the Trisk and work with handguns, then go out and squeeze off rifle rounds into some berms.”

The light turns green, but traffic is moving so slowly that they don’t make it through before the light goes red again. Brock drums his hands on the steering wheel. Somewhere behind them, a car horn blares. Jack gathers up the papers and slips them back into the envelope, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll help you. And when you’re comfortable, we’ll have a rangemaster come and slap some initials on your targets. Garrett might even come see you for himself. He likes you,” Brock continues.

Jack is quiet for a few moments. Brock wonders if he’s angry with him again. “I wonder if laser dots would help me any,” Jack finally says says.

Brock grins. He’s glad that Jack is actually thinking about solutions rather than shutting down. “I got a few you can try,” he says. “Mil-dot would probably help you too.”

Jack nods and makes a noise like he hadn’t considered that before. He turns the manila envelope over and fastens it closed. “It would be better than working in private security, I guess,” he says.

It’s vague, but Brock supposes it’s as close to an affirmative answer as he’s going to get. 

* * *

Despite reassurances from Brock and the comfort of internal logic, doubt crowds Jack’s thoughts. The doctor said it would take several months for his brain to adjust to the changes in his vision, and after that he should have no problems. But Jack finds himself having trouble accepting the permanence of his injuries. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to shoot a gun with any accuracy if he can’t even pour himself a drink without spilling.

The next day, they start going to the indoor shooting range at the Triskelion. It adds a change to the routine they’ve fallen into. It’s not a positive change, at first. Jack is still injured and the pain in his face is a distraction. He concentrates as best he can, but the laser sight on Brock’s handgun doesn’t seem to be helping. Jack is able to hit targets at multiple distances. However, he’s dissatisfied with his accuracy. After a few shots, he gets angry and unloads the entire clip without aiming.

“Everything’s off,” Jack says, yanking his earmuffs back. “I’m still not used to it.”

Brock slaps Jack’s arm. His combination of ear protection and military-related hearing loss means that he’s talking louder than normal. “You're better than I thought you'd be, so we're ahead. Feels good, doesn't it?” he half yells.

Jack nods. The Glock is heavy and comforting in his hand. It’s been so long since he’s fired a gun that he can smell the gunpowder again. Shooting feels natural, but his vision isn’t cooperating. At first, the change in his depth perception was his main worry. But after several hours at the range, his concern shifts to his limited field of vision. He has no peripheral vision on his left side and he has to turn his head to see in that direction. It’s not much of a problem while shooting straight ahead, but he knows it will affect him during combat situations.

Jack slowly improves with continual practice. Brock provides constant encouragement and gets tough on Jack when he needs it. They get special permission to use the outdoor range for some rifle practice and freeze their asses off every day for a week straight.

Brock is complaining about how hard it is to load a clip with numb fingers while Jack works on sighting in his rifle. They’re bundled up, but the February cold cuts right through their layers. Their earmuffs prevent them from hearing the boots on the gravel behind them. Brock jumps in fright when a heavy hand claps him on the shoulder.

“I gotta say, it fills me with the utmost pride to see two of my favorite operatives working so hard,” Garrett says in his Texas drawl.

Brock pulls his earmuffs back and lets them hang around his neck. Jack puts the safety on his rifle and sets it down on a nearby table. He hasn’t seen Garrett in some time and he averts his eyes in an involuntary show of fear and respect. With his injury, he wonders if Garrett sees him as wasted potential.

“Didn’t think we’d see you out here, sir,” Brock says.

“Well, I like to deliver important news personally,” Garrett says. He turns to Jack. “You two can go get warmed up. I’ve decided to add you to the STRIKE Team, if you’re still interested.”

Jack isn’t sure if he’s hearing properly. “Really?” he asks, nervously looking at Brock. “Sir, I’ve been practicing, but I haven’t done a range test or anything.”

“You’ve been practicing, and I’ve been watching,” Garrett says with a wink.

Brock manages to thank Garrett, but Jack is shocked into silence when he shakes the man’s icy hand. They’re both fairly stupefied as Garrett congratulates Jack on his progress before taking his leave. When Jack and Brock look at each other, both their mouths are hanging open. 

* * *

They talk about going out to celebrate, but it’s snowing by the time they pack up and leave the range. Brock wonders aloud if they can get pizza delivered before the roads get too bad. Jack is still in so much shock that he can’t make decisions about dinner or what he wants from the liquor store.

When Brock puts the car into park, he looks at Jack. “Are you okay?” he finally asks.

“Yeah,” Jack says, maybe too readily. “Just—I don’t know. It’s weird to get real revved up about something and then—”

Brock surprises Jack with a hand on his knee. “I know. I get it,” he says, patting him.

Jack is glad that he doesn’t have to explain. He’s happy. Relieved, even. But he’s having trouble processing the abrupt resolution. He’s been trying to protect himself from disappointment by convincing himself that he wouldn’t be selected for the STRIKE Team. Now he’s not sure what thoughts to fill his head with. He decides to focus on the strategics of pizza delivery during inclement weather, and whether or not he should mix alcohol with his pain meds. He focuses on Brock and the snowflakes that are gathered on his shoulders when he returns to the car with a six-pack of beer.

“You know, you look real good without the bandages,” Brock tells him when they get home.

He puts his hands on the sides of Jack’s face, but doesn’t press hard. He keeps Jack from turning his head away as he stares up at him. Jack knows that he’s checking out his eye.

Jack sighs. “What’re you doin’?” he asks for the sake of conversation.

Jack is tall enough that he can stare over the top of Brock’s head. Completely meeting his gaze is too uncomfortable. The strabismus is most noticeable when he looks directly ahead. His left eye no longer moves in coordination with the right one. It occurs to him that he hasn’t really met Brock's gaze since his accident.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Brock says, patting the uninjured side of Jack’s face.

“You just can’t see it because my face isn’t healed up yet,” Jack says as he pulls away.

Brock grabs the waistband of his jeans. “C’mon, don’t argue with me. I think you look great,” he says. He moves in until their crotches are touching. “When you can get it up again, I’m gonna jump on your dick so fast… I’ll even let you do me real slow, just the way you like it.”

Jack reaches around Brock’s body and swats his ass. Brock jumps and laughs, grabbing a fistful of Jack’s t-shirt and pulling him even closer.

“I’m gettin’ real tired of you smackin’ me around,” he growls, unable to keep a straight face.

“Didn’t think spanks counted,” Jack says dryly.

Brock’s eyes flick upward for a moment before he kisses Jack on the mouth. He reaches up and runs his fingertips over the deep furrow of scar tissue in Jack’s chin.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's done! I want to thank everyone who has read, commented, given kudos, and shared this fic around on Tumblr. I hope you enjoy this little coda that brings SMST both full circle and to a close.

The room is quiet except for the sound of Brock breathing. Deep, even breaths that are created by a ventilator rather than his own lungs. Jack hasn’t done anything but sit and listen to Brock breathe for a few days now.

HYDRA is fractured, but still squirming with life. Jack doesn’t like the idea of being driven underground, spurned like rats that scamper along subway tunnels. But he knows better than anyone that sometimes you have to die a little in order to survive. Sometimes you gotta go against every sane, self-preserving instinct and grab that third rail.

It was easy to prise Brock from custody, even in this grave state. The U.S. Marshals guarding his hospital room didn’t stand a chance. It was just another small burst of violence in a city still reeling from the three helicarriers that dropped out of the sky.

There is much uncertainty, but at least Jack is reassured in knowing that Brock is now in the right hands. Never mind that they are holed up in some stripped down, disused facility hidden away from anyone that might come knocking. Their covers are blown wide open, they are concussed and burned, but he and Brock are somehow alive and safe.

Jack's still not sure how Brock survived. The image of him meeting Jack in a stairwell of the Triskelion, arms raised from the sides of his body like a scarecrow, is gouged into Jack’s memory. He replays it over and over during his waking hours and he dreams about it at night. Brock, half-dead but still somehow standing, was covered in concrete dust and badly burned. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Thin tatters of skin were hanging off his arms; his face was a bloodied mess.

Jack remembers the moment he realized that the building was collapsing. He was dazed and nauseous from a serious concussion, acting on a basal desire to survive. He gathered up Brock in his arms and watched in horror as his burned skin sloughed off at the slightest touch. The worst part was that Brock didn’t even react. He was—and maybe still is—dying.

It’s been a blur of resuscitations and deep sedation and intensive wound care. Brock hasn’t been conscious since the day he was burned and he won’t be until doctors decide that he’s stable enough to handle the pain. In the meantime, they slather Brock with thick antibiotic cream and harvest skin grafts to cover what is unlikely to heal on its own. Jack watches everything that isn’t done in the operating room. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Jack doesn’t understand a lot of things concerning their current situation, but he understands loyalty. Brock is keeping him here, not HYDRA. Jack could slip through a knothole and disappear like so many others have done. But instead he lingers, feeling raw and desperate.

At times, the doctors aren’t optimistic that Brock will survive. But Jack never has a doubt. The facility is tense with Brock’s presence from the moment he’s fully weaned off the ventilator and allowed to regain consciousness. He screams his way through most of his treatments and it’s the worst sound Jack has ever heard. Even fentanyl doesn’t cut through the agony of debridement and dressing changes. They cover some of his wounds with bandages that reek of petroleum and the smell reminds Brock of the accelerant that burned him. Jack is the one that holds the wastebasket while Brock retches from the resulting panic attacks.

Later, Brock’s scars will mirror splashes of burning jet fuel, adorn him in swirls and whorls of melted flesh that somehow knitted back together. Jack will kiss him and touch his skin with reverence, just like Brock did for him.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [Come hang out with me on Tumblr!](http://www.prozacplease.tumblr.com)
> 
> ♥ Comments are always appreciated. ♥  
> 


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